Darkhaven

by A. F. E. Smith

  ‘Don’t worry,’ Sorrow said, banging the window shut. Her bravado couldn’t quite hide the tremor in her voice. ‘It won’t come back.’ She turned in Elisse’s direction, concern flickering over her face. ‘Are you hurt?’

  ‘I’m not – it’s not –’ Elisse had to stop as another ripple overtook her. It was like a metal vice clamping down on her insides, squeezing her until her whole world was reduced to that one agonising, dragging sensation. Sweat had broken out on her forehead; she gasped in a breath of air, but it didn’t feel like it was nearly enough.

  ‘It’s no’ that,’ she managed, forcing the words out through gritted teeth. ‘I think – I think I’m going ta have the baby.’

  And with that, as if to prove her right, she felt the warm gush as her waters broke.

  As Sorrow scrubbed her hands under the tap, her mind was blank with fear. Though not all blank: the small part of it that always remained detached sat back and watched her response with interest. So this is what I’m afraid of. Who knew? She had fought men twice her size without her heart rate even increasing, but faced with a woman in the throes of labour, she was suddenly in a state of something close to panic.

  Whilst Elisse paced the room as though she couldn’t stay still, stopping at intervals to breathe through a renewed wave of pain, Sorrow had been making what preparations she could for what she assumed would be an extremely messy business. She’d stripped the covers off the bed and spread out several spare blankets from a high shelf in the wardrobe. She’d also dumped her leathers and all her weaponry to one side, and put on the simplest of Ayla’s dresses she could find. That didn’t exactly add to her enjoyment of the situation: last time she’d worn a dress, she’d been five years old and still tying pink ribbons in her hair. Still, it wasn’t as if anyone was going to see her.

  Turning away from the basin, she found that Elisse had clambered onto the bed and was lying on her side, hands resting on the curve of her stomach, eyes glazed and cheeks flushed. Sorrow walked over and stood looking down at her, wondering again whether she was doing the right thing. She’d expected the Helm to come running at the sound of the pistol going off earlier, but with Darkhaven’s thick internal walls it had probably been more audible outside the tower – through the open window – than it had within. Not only that, but Ayla’s room was in an isolated part of the building, so it was possible that no-one had heard. Whatever the reason, there wasn’t anyone here but her, and she hadn’t a damn clue what she was doing. She should probably fetch help.

  But if she did, most likely she’d end up being arrested by the Helm.

  On the other hand, if she didn’t then it would be her fault if something went wrong and Elisse or the baby died …

  ‘I think I’d better go and find the physician,’ she said, with an inward sigh. Elisse shook her head, clutching desperately at Sorrow’s hand.

  ‘No time. It’s coming. It’s coming now –’

  Now turned out to be an exaggeration, but Sorrow was kept busy enough not to consider leaving the room again. She wasn’t sure how long the process lasted; it felt like an eternity, but the night sky outside the window remained unchanged. Sometimes it seemed as though she and Elisse were caught in an endless struggle – as though they were labouring together to bring forth the world itself, and dawn would be held in abeyance until their work was done. Other times, she decided that exertion followed by the unfamiliar emotion of fear had combined to make her light-headed and silly. Either way, there finally came a time when Elisse hitched herself up on her hands and knees, her skirts all tangled around her waist, and spoke through gritted teeth.

  ‘If Florentyn Nightshade wasn’ dead I’d bloody well kill him myself for this.’ She took in a long, trembling breath, then let it out slowly. ‘It’s going ta happen soon, Naeve. I can feel it –’

  Her voice faded into a groan, her entire body shaking. Sorrow caught her breath as she saw the baby’s head begin to emerge. She said something to Elisse, she wasn’t even sure what, but the other woman was lost to everything except her own driving urges. A cry tore from her lips as the head passed fully through her stretched and delicate flesh, and Sorrow reached out to cradle the misshapen skull as the shoulders and the rest of the body followed. Then the baby was in her hands, tiny and whole and alive. She had never seen anything so completely fragile. She brought him close to her chest for warmth, heedless of the blood staining Ayla’s dress.

  ‘It’s a boy,’ she whispered.

  ‘Clear his nose and mouth.’ Elisse sounded tired but urgent. ‘Make sure he can breathe properly.’

  Sorrow did as she was told, using a finger to scoop away the sticky fluids that coated the child’s face. She was rewarded with a weak, wavery cry as he found his lungs for the first time. Elisse lowered herself back down onto her side as though her arms and knees would no longer support her, one hand reaching out blindly. Understanding the wordless request, Sorrow brought the baby round to lie as far up the bed as possible, mother and child still tethered by the thick birthing cord. Elisse gathered him in against her breast, wrapping a clean fold of the topmost blanket over him for warmth.

  ‘Should I cut the cord?’ Sorrow asked doubtfully. Elisse shook her head, her hair plastered to her face in sweaty streaks.

  ‘Not yet. There’s more to come first.’

  The more to come, when it happened, was messy but easy enough to cope with in comparison to the baby himself. After that, Sorrow cut and tied the birthing cord, then leaned against the bedpost and watched Elisse as she talked softly to the baby. She was suddenly exhausted. Perhaps that was why she felt as if she were about to cry. Shedding tears was something else she hadn’t done for ages – not since she was ten years old and watching her mother being thoroughly beaten by her second husband. She and her mother had cried together, made plans to run away – and in the morning, Sorrow had watched in disbelief as everything went back to normal. That was when she’d learned the futility of grief.

  The next time her stepfather beat her mother, and all the times that followed, she hadn’t shed a single tear. But two years later, as soon as she was strong enough, she’d stabbed him while he slept and run away to Arkannen, a city where it was possible to become so thoroughly lost that no-one would ever find you. A city where it was possible to make a very good living by carrying out tasks that were unpleasant but necessary, just like her execution of her stepfather.

  Perhaps her role in this baby’s birth would go at least some way towards balancing all the deaths she had played a part in since then.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ she asked Elisse, trying to shake off her annoyingly self-examining thoughts. She’d never been one for navel-gazing.

  ‘Knackered.’ Elisse looked up, her lips curved in a wondering smile. ‘But good. It feels –’ she glanced down again, as if searching for an appropriate word in the baby’s face – ‘it feels right.’

  ‘Can I fetch you anything?’

  ‘A glass o’ water would be nice.’ Then, as Sorrow handed it to her, ‘Thank ya, Naeve. And I don’ jus’ mean for the water.’ Her hand gestured vaguely over her son’s head. ‘Thanks for – well, for all this.’

  ‘No problem.’

  They looked at each other for a long, silent moment. Then, feeling as though her legs were going to give up and let her fall, Sorrow dragged the chair over from the table to the bedside and sat down.

  ‘In the morning I’ll go and see Myrren,’ she said. ‘Tell him what happened here tonight.’ She looked ruefully down at the dark stains that covered Ayla’s dress from breasts to knees. ‘But first I’d better change back into my own clothes. Otherwise he’ll probably think I’ve murdered someone.’

  ‘Ya don’ think he’ll arrest ya?’ Elisse murmured, sounding sleepy.

  ‘I hope not.’ Sorrow gazed out at the night sky, the old shiver of opportunity seizing her once more. The familiarity of it was a relief. ‘Since I’ve just helped to deliver his brother.’

  TWENTY-SIX


  As Caraway waited in line at a street vendor’s stall, he scanned the sheet he had just bought in search of news. To start with he felt almost nervous with hope, but as he looked down the flimsy paper that quickly changed to disappointment. There was no mention of the capture of a rogue Changer, or the solving of Florentyn’s murder, or indeed any word from Darkhaven at all. The entire news-sheet was given over to the description and analysis of a gang fight that had broken out in the Night Quarter the previous evening. Which meant that either Myrren had followed the same false scent they had, and the girl from the fourth ring – Elisse – was nothing to do with the attacks, or Caraway’s suspicions had been right after all, and Myrren and the mysterious Elisse were working together.

  With a sigh, Caraway folded the piece of paper and put it in his pocket. He wasn’t going to enjoy breaking the news to Ayla. What was more, neither of the two possibilities they were faced with inspired him with much confidence that he would be able to help her any further. If Myrren and Elisse and the Helm were all working together, then as far as he could see, Ayla might as well flee the city for all the chance she stood of proving her innocence. And if the killer was still unknown and at large, then they were right back where they’d started, only this time without any favours to call in. Though he couldn’t suppress a guilty pang of relief that Ayla wouldn’t be leaving him today after all, it seemed almost certain he’d end up letting her down.

  Accepting two slices of iced redfruit from the vendor, Caraway flicked the man a coin and turned away. He’d better get back to the apartment as soon as possible and let Ayla know where they stood. Maybe between them they’d be able to come up with a new plan of action.

  As he approached the street where they were staying, the bright colours of a Helmsman’s coat caught his eye. He ducked into a doorway, heart racing. They knew Ayla was with him, now, which meant he had to be extra careful not to lead them back to her. And this particular Helmsman, though standing at a busy crossroads without any attempt at concealment, didn’t quite seem like a casual passer-by. His posture was relaxed enough, but his intent gaze scanned the face of each person who passed him.

  If Caraway hadn’t known better, he’d have sworn the man was a lookout.

  For an instant he panicked, wondering if he’d been wrong about Lord Myrren after all. Wondering if by giving Ayla the opportunity to Change last night, he’d led Myrren and the Helm right to her.

  No, he told himself. Sorrow made it clear enough that Myrren knew no more about the pregnant girl – Elisse – than we do. He isn’t working against Ayla, I’m sure of it. You’re just being paranoid. Yet all the same, his heart kept up its rapid beat as he used the cover of a wagon to slip past the Helmsman unseen and head for the street that held the corn mill.

  When he reached it and saw another pair of striped coats on the corner, his unease solidified into something worse. Yes, these two men appeared to be having a heated conversation. Yes, neither of them was obviously looking for something, as the first man had been. And yet …

  And yet, even two sightings was too many to be a coincidence. He knew what it looked like when the Helm were preparing a raid, and it was something very like this. Of course, it was possible that the job they were on had nothing to do with Ayla. But if Caraway had learned one thing in life, it was always to assume the worst. So now he had to think of a way to get her out of the building before the trap closed.

  Go back down to the cellar, said the well-trained part of him – the part that wasn’t incoherent with anxiety. They won’t think to look there. And if they do, at least she’ll have room to defend herself.

  He briefly joined a group of labourers to pass the Helmsmen on the corner, then broke into a jog. The street was busier than it had been when he left. Two men were unloading a cart outside the corn mill, and another man – perhaps a customer – was just dismounting from his horse. And opposite, drawn up at the door of Caraway’s own building, was a carriage and pair. Caraway didn’t recognise the device on the carriage, but all the same …

  Even as he quickened his pace further, the front door of the building opened and a man in a striped coat emerged, his arm wrapped tightly around a female figure in a hooded cloak. As Caraway watched, the woman drove an elbow into the Helmsman’s ribs and made as if to run; the Helmsman caught her wrist, yanking her towards him, and her hood fell back to reveal her short dark hair.

  They’d found her.

  Caraway stumbled, the fruit in his hand sending sticky trails down his wrist. Then he flung it aside and started running in earnest. He saw the Helmsman aim a nervous glance in his direction, alerted by the slap of his soles on the paved street, then twist Ayla’s arm up behind her back and shove her towards the carriage. Fury blazed through Caraway, darkening the edges of his vision until he could see nothing but the two of them ahead, a small illuminated picture surrounded by jagged shadows. He pushed himself harder, every muscle straining, but it wasn’t fast enough. It could never be fast enough. Like running through a nightmare, the sheer weight and substance of his body held him back.

  ‘Stop!’ he shouted, though he knew he was only wasting his energy. If he could just keep running – if he could just hold them there until he reached them – but it was no use. With a terse command to the driver, the Helmsman bundled Ayla into the carriage and leapt in after her. Even as Caraway drew closer, his hands outstretched in a vain attempt to claw back what he had lost, the horses moved forward at a crack of the whip and the carriage juddered into motion. Caraway forced his legs to keep pumping, but already the gap between him and the vehicle was widening. In another few moments, it had reached the end of the street and turned out of sight.

  I shouldn’t have left her alone. I should never have left her alone. Caraway bent over, resting his elbows on his knees, fighting to catch his breath. Sweat was running down his forehead, stinging his eyes; he wiped it away with the back of his hand. His lungs were tight, his muscles seizing. If he hadn’t spent the last five years drowning himself in alcohol then maybe he’d be in better shape. If he hadn’t gone out by himself to fetch breakfast …

  Forget all that, he told himself. You have to get Ayla back before it’s too late. Nothing else matters.

  As he straightened, he glanced over his shoulder: the two Helmsmen from the street corner were running towards him. In another few moments they’d be on him and his one chance to redeem himself would be lost. Staring wildly around, he spotted the horse that was now tethered outside the corn mill, the owner presumably having gone inside and left it under the eye of the two workmen. Caraway didn’t hesitate. A few strides took him across the street; a slash from his broken blade severed the rope. Before the men unloading the cart could do more than stop and stare, Caraway was on the horse’s back and urging it after the carriage.

  It was a long time since he’d ridden a horse. The Helm didn’t train on horseback – in the narrow streets of Arkannen, it was easier to fight on foot – but everyone who passed through the fifth ring learned at least the basics of mounted combat, and Caraway had grown up in a family that was just wealthy enough to teach its sons how to ride. All the same, to start with it was all he could do to stay in the saddle and keep the animal going in the right direction. It was like being in charge of a rather unstable machine that could set its will against his at any time and for which he only dimly remembered the instructions; his entire body was tense with the need to control it.

  After a period of battling with himself and the horse he rediscovered the rhythm of their shared movements, and then he was free to focus on what he was doing. He hadn’t lost the carriage, which was something. It was still a street length ahead of him, rattling and swaying around each corner just as he rounded the previous one. But the driver appeared to be aware that he was being chased; he was bowling along the roads of the first ring at a far greater speed than would usually be acceptable, throwing the occasional nervous glance over his shoulder. It dawned on Caraway that rather than taking the shortest route to th
e Gate of Flame and the higher rings, as he would have expected, the carriage was heading in the opposite direction: deeper into the industrial heart of the first ring, towards the Gate of Birth. Perhaps the Helm weren’t taking Ayla back to Darkhaven after all. Perhaps they planned to leave the city altogether … but he shrugged the question off. It made no difference. Wherever the carriage was going, he needed to catch up with it.

  As if the driver had heard his resolve and was determined to counteract it, the carriage made a sharp right-hand turn in the direction of the canal. Caraway dug his heels into his horse’s sides, spurring it on to greater speed. If he lost the carriage amid the maze of smaller streets and factories that lined the waterway, he’d never be able to find it again.

  ‘Watch it, mister!’ A mechanical cycle whirred across his path in a trail of steam, almost under the horse’s feet; he swore, tightening his grip on the reins as the animal baulked, the muscles in his shoulders aching with the unaccustomed strain. Trying to soothe the horse with an unsteady hand on its neck, he encouraged it forward again, ducking as they veered beneath a low-hanging sign and around the corner into the narrower street.

  Straight away the sound of the horse’s hooves against the ground changed from a precise tap to a deafening clatter – some of the older streets of the first ring were still cobbled. Ahead the carriage was bouncing and shaking, ill prepared for a surface like this. Caraway permitted himself a grim smile and increased his pace. Maybe it had been an attempt at losing him, maybe a wrong turn by the driver; either way it would serve him well.

  Hold on, Ayla, he told her silently. I’m coming as fast as I can.